Lord L'Estrange did not seem to observe the emotion. "We were both sad extravagant fellows in our day," said he, "and I dare say I borrowed of you pretty freely."
"Me! Oh, Lord L'Estrange?"
"You have married since then, and reformed, I suppose. Tell me, old friend, all about it."
Mr. Digby, who by this time had succeeded in restoring some calm to his shattered nerves, now rose, and said in brief sentences, but clear firm tones,
"My Lord, it is idle to talk of me—useless to help me. I am fast dying. But, my child there, my only child (he paused an instant, and went on rapidly). I have relations in a distant country, if I could but get to them—I think they would at least provide for her. This has been for weeks my hope, my dream, my prayer. I can not afford the journey except by your help. I have begged without shame for myself; shall I be ashamed, then, to beg for her?"
"Digby," said L'Estrange, with some grave alteration of manner, "talk neither of dying, nor begging. You were nearer death when the balls whistled round you at Waterloo. If soldier meets soldier and says, 'Friend, thy purse,' it is not begging, but brotherhood. Ashamed! By the soul of Belisarius! if I needed money, I would stand at a crossing with my Waterloo medal over my breast, and say to each sleek citizen I had helped to save from the sword of the Frenchman, 'It is your shame if I starve.' Now, lean upon me; I see you should be at home—which way?"
The poor soldier pointed his hand toward Oxford-street, and reluctantly accepted the proffered arm.
"And when you return from your relations, you will call on me? What!—hesitate? Come, promise."
"I will."
"On your honor."